30 chapters
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30 chapters
Chapter One.
Chapter One.
Wilford Heaton is not my real name, for why should I publish it to the world? The reason I do not give it is, first, because I have no desire to be made the object of idle curiosity or speculation, and secondly, although the explanation herein given will clear the honour of one of the most powerful of the Imperial Houses in Europe, I have no wish that my true name should be associated with it. I have, however, a reason for writing this narrative—a very strong reason. The story is an enthralling
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Chapter Two.
Chapter Two.
How long I remained ignorant of things about me it is impossible to tell. I fancy it must have been a good many hours. On my first return to consciousness I heard strange confused sounds about me, low whispering, the words of which were utterly unintelligible to my unbalanced brain, and the quick rustling of silk. I remember wondering vaguely where I was. The blind quickly develop a habit of extreme caution, and with my senses dulled by the excruciating pain in my skull I lay reflecting without
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Chapter Three.
Chapter Three.
My first impulse was to jump up and arrest the progress of the assassin, but on reflection I saw that to do so would only be to invite death. What could I do, blind as I was? Only could I sit and listen, trying to distinguish every detail of the mystery. Yes, I became convinced more than ever that the person leaving the room was not a man—but a woman. Could it be the same individual whose cool, sympathetic hand had only a quarter of an hour before soothed my brow? The thought held me dumbfounded
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Chapter Four.
Chapter Four.
“I found it,” I replied. “Where?” “On the floor of the room, while I was searching about.” The man grunted dubiously. I was well aware of the suspicion which must fall upon me, for I knew there was blood upon my clothes, and that my story possessed a distinct air of improbability. “Who injured your head like that?” he asked. In response, I told him how, in crossing a road, I had been knocked down and rendered insensible by a cab, and how, on regaining consciousness, I had found myself under the
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Chapter Five.
Chapter Five.
“A place wherein, alas! more than one person has found his grave,” she explained at last. “But I don’t understand,” I said eagerly. “All is so puzzling. I believed that I was inside a police-station, whereas I had actually walked into this mysterious and cleverly-prepared trap. Who are these people who are my enemies?—tell me.” “Unfortunately, I cannot.” “But you, yourself, are not one of them,” I declared. “I may be,” answered the voice in a strange, vague tone. “Why?” “Ah! no, that is not a fa
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Chapter Six.
Chapter Six.
A few moments later she was again at my side, and by the clang of iron I knew that the aperture of that fatal place was closed again. I inquired of her where we were, but she only replied— “I’ve already explained to you that to seek to elucidate the mystery of these adventures of yours is entirely useless. We have promised to each other mutual faith. That is, in itself, sufficient.” Then, taking my arm, she hurriedly led me across the room, up some steps, and along two long passages that ran at
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Chapter Seven.
Chapter Seven.
The clock of St. Clement Danes chimed merrily, then slowly struck the hour. I counted, and found that it was eleven o’clock in the morning. How much had happened during the past fifteen hours! I had twice nearly lost my life. Having cast aside my hat, I sank into my armchair, muddy and dirty, just as I was. My head, where it had been struck in the accident, pained me considerably, and I felt that I had a touch of fever coming on. Yet all my thoughts were concentrated upon the future and what the
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Chapter Eight.
Chapter Eight.
Fortunately, having cut out the maker’s name, and taken everything from the pockets which might serve as a clue to ownership, I felt perfectly safe, and eagerly read the issue of the same journal on the following evening, which told how the stains had been analysed, and found to be those of human blood. A little more than a week had passed since my remarkable midnight adventure, when one morning I received a brief note by post, which Parker read to me. It consisted of only two typewritten lines
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Chapter Nine.
Chapter Nine.
Therefore, after further argument, I very reluctantly promised to allow him to operate upon me on the morrow. “Good,” he answered. “I felt sure that your natural desire for the restoration of your sight would not allow your minor prejudices to stand in the way. Shall we say at noon to-morrow.” “Any hour will suit me,” I answered briefly, with a rather bad grace. “Then let it be at noon. I and my assistant will be here by eleven-thirty.” “I should prefer to come to your surgery,” I said, with the
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Chapter Ten.
Chapter Ten.
If, however, Nellie Channing was pretty, her beauty was far eclipsed by that of my neighbour on my right, a tall, dark-haired girl in blue, a Miss Anson, who with her mother, a quiet, white-haired elderly lady, were the only other guests in addition to myself. From the moment we were introduced I saw that Mrs Anson’s daughter possessed a face that was absolutely perfect, rather oval in shape, with large, beautiful eyes, that seemed to shine as they looked upon me, and to search me through and th
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Chapter Eleven.
Chapter Eleven.
His words seemed very lame ones. “Why should I be unhappy?” “Because Mabel Anson can never be more to you than an acquaintance; she can never reciprocate your love. I tell you plainly that if you allow yourself to become entranced and all that sort of thing, you’ll only make a confounded ass of yourself.” “You certainly speak very plainly,” I observed, annoyed that he should interfere so prematurely in a matter which was assuredly my affair alone. “I speak because I have your welfare at heart, W
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Chapter Twelve.
Chapter Twelve.
“Yes, across the Park,” she laughed. “Mother forbids it, but I much prefer the Park to those stuffy omnibuses.” “And you’ve been to your music, I suppose?” I inquired. “Yes. I’ve not been well for the past few days, and have missed several lessons. Now, like a good pupil, I’m endeavouring to make them up, you know.” And she laughed merrily. “How many times a week do you go to the Academy?” I asked, surprised that she should have gone there that day, after what the hall-porter had told me. “Twice
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Chapter Thirteen.
Chapter Thirteen.
She hesitated, and with a quick effort regained her self-control. “I mean it possesses an extraordinary resemblance to one I have seen many times before—but I suppose there are lots of pencil-cases of the same shape,” she added with affected carelessness. “But there is a curious, unintelligible cypher engraved upon it,” I said. “Did you notice it?” “Yes. It is the engraving which makes me doubt that I know its owner. His initials were not those.” “You speak in the past tense,” I observed. “Why!”
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Chapter Fourteen.
Chapter Fourteen.
“I agree entirely,” I said, smiling at her philosophy. “Some blatant crank bent on self-advertisement might do worse than found an Anti-ornamental Dress League. Just think how much of life’s trials would at once slip off a man if he wore neither collar nor tie—especially the dress-tie!” “And off a woman, if she wore neither belt, gloves, nor neck arrangement!” “Exactly. It would be actually making us a present for life of nearly an hour a day. That would be seven hours a week, or nearly a fortni
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Chapter Fifteen.
Chapter Fifteen.
Every detail of that handsome room was exactly as I had pictured it. The blind, with their keen sense of touch, are quick to form mental impressions of places and things, and the general character of this apartment I had riveted upon my mind with the fidelity of a photograph. The furniture was of gilt, just as I had detected from its smoothness, and covered with a rich brocade in wide stripes of art green and dull red-brown—an extremely handsome pattern; the carpet was dark, with a pile so thick
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Chapter Sixteen.
Chapter Sixteen.
“Your mother tells me that you have a box for the Prince of Wales’s on Saturday night, and has asked me to join you,” I said. Her eyes brightened, and I saw that she was delighted at the prospect. But she expressed a hope that I wouldn’t be bored. “Bored!” I echoed. “Why, I’m never bored when in your company. I fear that it’s the other way about—that I bore you.” “Certainly not,” she responded decisively. “I very soon contrive to give persons who are bores their congé . Mother accuses me of rude
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Chapter Seventeen.
Chapter Seventeen.
The blank in my mind, caused by my sudden unconsciousness, did not appear to me to be of very long duration. All I know is that I was utterly ignorant of every event that transpired about me, and knew nothing whatever of any of the incidents which afterwards took place in that dark, obscure house, or elsewhere. And yet they must have been of a character absolutely unheard of. I have said that the period of my benighted senses did not appear to be prolonged. Indeed, now on reflection in the calmn
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Chapter Eighteen.
Chapter Eighteen.
“I don’t believe it,” I said, bluntly. “It’s all a confounded conspiracy, and, moreover, you are staking your professional reputation by assisting in it.” He shrugged his shoulders and raised his grey eyebrows with an expression of regret. “I have been called to you, my dear sir, because you have met with an accident,” he said. “I have merely given you the best of my advice—namely, to remain quiet, and not trouble about anything that has passed. Your brain requires rest after the severe shock it
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Chapter Nineteen.
Chapter Nineteen.
“And I tell you that you are Wilford Heaton, my husband, and owner of this house,” she answered, her face growing redder with excitement. The situation was certainly stranger than any other in which a man could possibly be placed. That it was no dream, but a stern reality, was entirely plain. I glanced around the comfortable library, and saw there evidences of wealth and refinement, while through the window beyond my gaze fell upon the wide park sloping away to a large lake glistening in the sun
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Chapter Twenty.
Chapter Twenty.
“Come,” I said, “show me over the place. It will be a most interesting visit, I’m sure.” And I laughed, reflecting upon my extraordinary position, one absolutely unparalleled in man’s history. “But before doing so will you not sign one or two cheques?” he urged, glancing at his watch. “The postman will call for the letters in half an hour, and they must be dispatched to-day.” “What cheques?” “There are six,” he answered, taking out a large cheque-book and opening it. “I’ve already made them out,
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Chapter Twenty One.
Chapter Twenty One.
“For nearly four.” “And that woman,” I demanded, breathlessly—“is she actually my wife?” “Most certainly,” he answered. I stood stupefied, stunned by this amazing statement. “But,” I protested, lost in wonder, “yesterday was years ago. How do you account for that? Are you certain that you’re not deceiving me?” “I’ve told you the absolute truth,” he responded. “On that I stake my honour.” I stood aghast, glaring at my reflection in the mirror, open-mouthed, as though I gazed upon some object supe
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Chapter Twenty Two.
Chapter Twenty Two.
How was I to account for that? I paused and glanced around upon the view. All was quiet and peaceful there in the mid-day sunlight. Behind me stood the great white façade of Denbury; before, a little to the right, lay a small village with its white cottages—the villages of Littleham, I afterwards discovered—and to the left white cliffs and the blue stretch of the English Channel gleaming through the greenery. From the avenue I turned and wandered down a by-path to a stile, and there I rested, in
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Chapter Twenty Three.
Chapter Twenty Three.
As I sat there with the carefully preserved letter in my hand there arose before my eyes a vision of her calm, fair face, bending over the piano, her handsome profile illumined by the candles on either side, the single diamond suspended by its invisible chain, gleaming at her throat like a giant’s eye. The impression I had obtained of her on that night at The Boltons still remained indelibly with me. Yes, her beauty was superb, her sweetness unsurpassed by that of any other woman I had ever met.
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Chapter Twenty Four.
Chapter Twenty Four.
“I’ll see if she’s at home, sir,” said the man, dubiously; and then, asking me into the entrance-hall, he left me standing while he went in search of his mistress. That hall was the same down which I had groped my way when blind. I saw the closed door of the drawing-room, and knew that within that room the young man whose name I knew not had been foully done to death. There was the very umbrella stand from which I had taken the walking-stick, and the door of the little-used library, which I had
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Chapter Twenty Five.
Chapter Twenty Five.
“My description!” she echoed in a tone of distinct alarm. “Yes, the description given of you by the cabman who drove me home on that memorable morning.” “Ah! Of course,” she ejaculated in sudden remembrance. Then, for a few seconds, she remained in silence. It seemed as though the fact that I had recognised her had somewhat confused her. “But I am extremely glad that we have met at last,” I assured her. “I have, times without number, hoped to have an opportunity of thanking you for the great ser
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Chapter Twenty Six.
Chapter Twenty Six.
“Yes. I left Sofia a week ago,” she answered. “It was at first proposed to place the matter in the hands of Guéchoff, our diplomatic representative at the Court of St. James’s, but, on consideration, His Serene Highness, knowing that with the present state of high feeling in the Sobranje a single hint leaking out might prove disastrous, to the dynasty, and perhaps to the nation, resolved to place the matter unreservedly in my hands. The Prince did me the honour of referring in terms of praise to
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Chapter Twenty Seven.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
I went on in blind despair towards my hotel. Determined upon tracing Mabel and ascertaining from her own lips the reason that our engagement had been terminated, I travelled on the following day down to Bournemouth, and made inquiries at the hotel from which her letter had been dated. After searching the books the hotel-clerk showed me certain entries from which it appeared that Mrs Anson and her daughter had arrived there on May 12, 1891, and had occupied one of the best suites of rooms until J
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Chapter Twenty Eight.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
I read it through a second time, then replaced it, and after some further search returned to my own room. When the maid brought my hot water next morning she told me that Mrs Slade had announced her intention to leave at eleven o’clock; therefore I packed, and leaving slightly earlier, was enabled to follow her cab to Victoria Station, whence she travelled to Brighton, putting up at the Métropole . I pursued similar tactics to those I had adopted in London, staying in the same hotel and yet cont
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Chapter Twenty Nine.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
“Mabel! The daughter of an Emperor?” I gasped involuntarily. “Impossible!” He shrugged his shoulders. He was a foreigner, although he spoke English well—an Austrian most probably. “You are surprised,” he laughed. “Many people have also been surprised, as the Archduchess, living in England nearly her whole life, has frequently been taken for an Englishwoman.” “I can’t believe it!” I cried. “Surely there must be some mistake!” I remembered those days of long ago when we had wandered together in Ke
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Chapter Thirty.
Chapter Thirty.
“I—I have nothing to say to your Highness,” the woman faltered. “I merely wished to know whether, when in London, I might call.” “Then listen,” exclaimed Mabel. “The truth is known, and it is useless for you to further conceal it. If you have nothing to say, Mr Hickman will at once call in the police, and I shall charge you with the murder of the Prince.” “The murder of the Prince!” she gasped, white to the lips. “I—did not commit the crime. I can prove that I didn’t!” Her hands were trembling,
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